


Bad Blood

by Murdochs



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Copious Inarticulate Thought Processes, F/M, Improbable Usages of Magic Throughout, Mainly Canon Compliant, Not Beta Read, On Hiatus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-01-21 02:23:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1534133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murdochs/pseuds/Murdochs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Corey Thomas is in her final year of schooling at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and for all intents and purposes couldn't be happier. She's been made Head Girl, received top marks last term, and has been allowed to take on an independent project related to the career she wishes to lead despite the impending threat of her NEWT exams. She's had her final year planned since her first, and she's not prepared for anything to go foul; but when it does, when she hears the name of a boy connected to her- in the most horrific way- called out during the arrival Feast, it all starts going wrong.</p>
<p>Set during, before, and after the Harry Potter Series, starting with the Sorting of Harry Potter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Flavor of Damnation

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've posted, but it isn't the first I've written by far (please don't ask after the ones that fell to the Void). It's un-beta'd, so it's not going to be tip-top at all, but bear with me. It makes sense in my head.  
> DISCLAIMER:: All recognizable scenes and charachters can be credited to their original creator.

The sun was shining, pleasantly warm and not at all too bright, down on her hunched shoulders, freckling them where the straps of her top did not reach. She'd been sitting in the patch of sunshine for so long that her hair- red and curly to the point where her aunt had often had to use a brickwork of smoothing Charms to get it to cooperate into a simple braid- was nearly scalding to the touch. Muggle children laughed in the distance, frolicking and splashing at each other from within the safe confines of a wading pool.

Corey turned her face to the sun, wishing fervently with all the hope in her soul that she could stay, just stay in this dream forever- because she knew without any doubt that she was hovering somewhere that was most decidedly not awake, in that way that happens when you dream. It was a fruitless exercise; she'd have to Wake at some point in the too-near future, and pretend to be happy in a school filled with students who neither hated nor accepted her for her horrid parentage and the affiliations their names hold. She'd be stuck back in that House, the one whose students were only ever famous for being passive and weak, and she'd have no friends among them, but she'd pretend to be happy with the lot she'd been dealt in life.

She'd have tormentors, because that is how the Wizarding world- and the Muggle world, she's heard- works. Even if it didn't, by some crazed miracle, work in such a manner, her classmates will already have re-cemented their peer groups and inter-house friendships by the end of the Sorting Feast; she'd be included in the initial rootings and re-rootings, if only to discuss her blood status- which she cares nothing for- at which point they'd shy away from her. The freak, decidedly, in a school full of them.

With a last, deep breath of sharp spring air- fresh cut grass and rain on parking lot black top shuffling deeply into her lungs- Corey extracts herself from the falseness she's created, emerging back into the reality of the Hall around her. It is crowded and hushed, upperclassmen and teachers alike filling the silence with murmurs and whispers of conversation as they wait for the Deputy Head to shuffle down the center divide with the new batch of first years.

"Did you hear, though? They say that Harry Potter's come to Hogwarts." Corey blinks once, twice, to gain her bearings as someone in the crowd mentions the Potter Boy. It'd been rumored on the bus, spread like fire by most of the students as they'd made their way to the school, and Corey was sick of hearing about it. She'd spent a day-long train ride in a compartment with her cousin, who'd been ranting and raving about some stranger he'd had a chance run in with earlier in the morning, who she now knows can be no one other than the Boy Who Just Wouldn't Die.

"It's got to be some sort of hoax." A red-haired fifth year sitting across the table from her argues gently with someone sitting next to her; a quick, side-long glance confirms that it is both of the Weasley twins, Fred and George. Two of the most prominent names on her list of tormentors, though both of them are several years younger than her.

"It is not! Me and Fred saw him on the train- right, Freddy?"

"Right-o, Georgie."

Thankfully Professor McGonagall- looking twice as stern as she usually does- strides quickly through the Hall, trailing the orderly line of teeny tiny witches and wizards to be after her like scared little ducklings before the fifth year can answer the twins. Corey sees Draco shooting gleeful looks at her from the corner of his eye as he passes and cringes; she remembers their conversation, and what he'd said about her house. None of his words had been too particularly cruel- her cousin wasn't a mean spirited person, despite who his parents and her mother were- but she hadn't bothered to bring up the fact that he himself could very well be sorted out of Slytherin and into Hufflepuff, like she had been. She might have failed to mention her desire to see him sorted somewhere other than Slytherin House as well, not wishing to face the tirade she'd receive from him or the Cursing she'd likely receive from Uncle.

At the front of the line, the youngest of the children stumble as McGonagall comes to an abrupt halt in front of the Sorting Hat. When the witch speaks, her voice carries throughout the entire room, reverberating off the far walls and settling in the air like a long-forgotten incantation.

"Abernathy, Lydia!" A girl with close cropped blonde hair steps up to the Hat, and only wobbles slightly as she sits on the stool. The room is quiet enough to hear the rain bouncing off the windows for the moment it takes the Hat to mull over its choice.

"RAVENCLAW!"

A loud cheer goes up, reverberating off the walls, as Lydia Abernathy hops down off the stool to scuttle away to the second table from the right.

Two Hufflepuffs and a second Ravenclaw follow up quickly, each cheer equally as intense as the last. Corey shifts around, shifting closer to the free end of the table as a short girl with gingerish hair and pink cheeks- colorfully named Lavender Brown- practically flounces her way up to the stool. She becomes the first of the new Gryffindors. The table farthest from the Slytherins, on the far left of the hall, whoops as she half skips her way to an empty seat, on the same bench as Percy Weasley but directly across from Corey. She'd begged an audience with the Headmaster upon her arrival at the castle- only moments before the rest of the student body- to argue her desire to sit somewhere other than with her Housemates, claiming that the school was sorely lacking in the inter-house unity department. He had allowed her the liberty with the noting of her position of Head Girl, stating that it would do the younger students good to see her somewhere other than her assigned House table (she'd seen the twinkle in his eye, though, and known he'd relented because of some reason only he himself knew).

It doesn't take much waiting for Draco to be called. There was a Slytherin, a Hufflepuff, and two more Gryffindors- a sandy haired boy with a gap-toothed grin called Seamus, and a brunette girl with ridiculously poufy hair who's sorting made a ginger boy in the line groan loudly enough to be heard at the House tables. Then came Draco; he turned to wink at Corey when Professor McGonagall called his name, a cocky grin plastered on his face as he swaggered up to sit. The brim of the Hat had barely brushed the tips of his ears when it shouted out his chosen house, sounding almost scared.

Fifteen more students are left to be sorted after Draco, and seven receive their House assignments before the next name is called.

"Longbottom, Neville!" The Hall seems to warp around her for a moment, and Corey can't stop herself from sucking in a harsh lungful of air at hearing that name. She tries to ignore the ripples of murmurs and excited whispers that go through the Hall the way they have with each new name, the way that her neck tingles which only happens when she doesn't Occlude well enough to keep the memories of Father's 'lessons' out, and the way one of the boys at the table with her quirks an eyebrow in her direction, shifting away from her as she takes a rapid series of shallow breaths even as he tries to shift closer to the boy at the front of the room. She keeps a look that she hopes seems at least semi-passive plastered on her face even as she strains to catch a glimpse of him, telling herself it is only out of mere curiosity that she wish to know. It's not like it bothers her, not knowing; her Mother killed many people, tortured countless others, and this child probably- most certainly, she knows- had family amongst those numbers. It has to be expected she'd want to know if she can't see traces of them, of who they used to be, in their son's face.

The hat slips over his eyes and ears before Corey has a chance to see anything other than a round face with chubby, red cheeks- still holding stubbornly on to a last bit of baby fat- and bright, crystalline blue eyes, and she withdraws partways into her mind, cutting off any visual stimuli from the Hall.

The Longbottom boy is here, here, at Hogwarts, where Corey would have a daily reminder of those vile people forced upon her because of him. That stupid hat is whispering into his ear like a snake- like Father and Mother and all of them used to before, and still do on any occasion they should wish to. Corey clenches her jaw tightly, closing off several of her more recent memories that she'd rather not have any eaves-droppers happen upon. She remembers what the the Hat had said to her, six years ago to the day, right before calling out the name of her chosen House, and the distinct taste of sweat mingling with citrus on her tongue that often went hand in hand with fear.

"Clever, you, such skill so young. You wish for power you already have- I can see it in you, in places you'd never even think to look. Brave and defiant in the face of murderers, no thought but for their victims and the fallout of their actions; unafraid to voice your concerns to the faces of a madman and his partner. I've the perfect place for you, Miss Thomas, somewhere you will go far."

At the head of the room, the Hat takes a deep breath- or something akin to it, whatever the Hat version of breathing is- and shouts out three distinct syllables, doing very little to melt away the icy block of discomfort that has settled deep within Corey's gut.

:::::

The Hall is absolute chaos. Corey really thought the train to Hogwarts was shit; bumpy and cramped and roaring loud where it could've been decidedly calm, but the journey here has got absolutely nothing on the Start of Term Feast that always- without fail- follows the Sorting. Corey had sat for a moment after the Hat announced its decision to the gathered crowd, waiting for McGonagall or Dumbledore or both to snap their fingers, to send a bucket load of charmed confetti flowing down upon her from the ceiling with balloons that shouted 'FOOLED YOU!' and made rude noises when they popped. When the moment stretched longer and longer, she finally realised it wasn't going to happen, that the boy flailing and tripping his way towards her- Sorting Hat still perched firmly on his head- was, in fact, going to be in the same house whose table Corey herself had chosen to seat herself at.

The rest of the Sorting had seemed to pass in a haze. After Longbottom had run back up to the raised platform to gently hand the Hat to a dark haired girl- MacDougal, Morag, Ravenclaw- he'd scuttled quickly back towards the Gryffindor table to plop nervously down on one of the benches. Right next to Corey.

With a sigh Corey shifts subtly closer to George Weasley- she knows it's George and not Fred, who lacks the tell-tale mole on the side of his neck and whose nose isn't quite as buttony as his twin's. George, for his part, doesn't seem to mind the rapidly depleting space between himself and the seventh year, going so far as to waggle his eyebrows at her. It's going to be a long Feast.

:::::

Corey honestly wonders why she had chosen a seat so close to the Head's table. She could rationalize to anyone who cared to ask that she'd simply wanted to get a close-up look at the proceedings, to be one of the first to see the expressions the new Firsties got when they heard the Hat's Hall-wide announcement- but to herself she couldn't lie nearly as well. She didn't strictly have to sit on the wrong side of the Weasley trio- now the Lopsided Weasley Quadrilateral- that was already sorted and seated at the table with her, she could just as easily have seen the first-years' expressions from Percy's left- she'd been drawn into conversation with him and the bushy haired first year, called Hermione, about ten minutes after the start of the meal, and learnt that she prefers his older brothers' silent company to his polite conversation. Of course, Corey would've then been squashed between a Weasley and the House's Quidditch Captain- not that Oliver was unattractive, or unkind, because he really wasn't. Oliver Wood had just about every girl outside of Slytherin House, and several within, dropping trou for him at every turn, to be exceedingly blunt, and he along with Charlie- who had graduated at the end of the last term- was probably the closest thing to a friend she'd had amongst the rest of the student body; but Corey was curious about the Longbottom boy, even though she'd been forbidden to even ask about him (a trait inherited from her Mother's side, a trait shared with several of her disowned cousins, about whom she had also been curious).

So, because of some stupid, ridiculous personality trait she inherited from a side of her family that no one ever even mentioned (relatively speaking; only about one-third of the currently living Black descendants were disowned), Corey is stuck swathed in a cocoon of unsympathetic Weasleys and newly-sorted first years, a whole table between her and any of her dorm mates (whom she can occasionally hold a somewhat mentally stimulating conversation with) and stuck talking about idiotic things she cares nothing for. Like blood status and Basic Transfiguration, which she finds even more dull than Charlie and Oliver's Quidditch strategies.

"Me dad's a Muggle. Came as a bit of a shock for him- and a nasty one, at that- when he found out. Mum didn't tell him she was a witch 'til after they were well and married." The sandy-haired boy with the gap teeth seems so excited to simply divulge his secrets to total strangers; Corey has a flash of white-hot emotion that she can't identify as either positive or negative, and chews weakly at her roast.

"What about Defense Against the Dark Arts? I read that the professor learned loads of interesting things on his travels!" Hermione Granger is chattering animatedly with Percy across the table about coursework- she's not even thought about her coursework, and she's Head Girl- a half-full plate of food sitting forgotten in front of her. The older Weasley nods animatedly.

"Very nearly. Defense isn't my strong suit, though, so I'd suggest asking Corey Thomas. She tutored me in my second year."

"She's Head Girl, isn't she? Could you introduce me? I'd love to ask her some questions about the coursework and various practical uses it might have in every-day life." The girl sounds so matter-of-fact for a first year- for a Muggle-born first year who can't have known about her magic for more than three months, at the outside- that Corey can't stop herself from laughing into her potato mash. Granger and Weasley both give her a look, but only one of them seems to hold onto any worry for Corey's mental health.

"Something funny?" Granger's face is decidedly closed off. It isn't completely void of emotion- the girl is only eleven, after all- but it's a well enough practiced facsimile of indifference that Corey's heart aches briefly.

"Hermione Granger, this is Corey Thomas, Head Girl and Captain of the Muggle athletics club we have established here at Hogwarts. Corey, this is-"

"Yes, I know. I'm right across the table from you, Weasley, and no matter how loud the rest of the imbeciles in this room get I can never seem to miss when someone quite so ginger as yourself mentions my name." Percy smiles bleakly at Corey as she sips from her goblet, while the girl next to him gapes open-mouthed at her bluntness.

"Yes, well, I can hardly be blamed for my brother's indiscretions, can I? So- since you seem to have heard our entire conversation, can you offer anything of substance?"

"Considering I've a working grasp on several of the practical uses of Dark Magic, yes, I probably could. There's not much use for the shite Quirrel teaches in the Defense courses; he went travelling and had a bit of trouble, and now he's just so boring. Granted he was boring before, but now he just stutters about Dark creatures and how dangerous they are rather than teaching us protective spells or charms."

"Blimey, Thomas, are you sure you weren't misplaced?" The muttered question leaves a bitter, oily taste at the back of Corey's tongue. She's made one or both of the Weasley twins- probably everyone within a good sized radius of herself if she's being truthful- uncomfortable with her blunt but honest comments. It doesn't bother her nearly as much as it should, being such a 'just and true' Hufflepuff. She toys with the idea of being offended, but shrugs it off just as quickly. It wouldn't suit her, and Oliver seems to have kicked Fred in the shin as retaliation anyways. She opens her mouth to offer a reply either way- preferably scathing- but is cut off when the main courses disappear, only to be replaced with a massive array of desserts and a wide assortment of fizzing drinks.

The conversation lays forgotten in the air above them as Hermione turns back to her conversation with Percy, leaving Corey to fall back to her own counsel for the remainder of the meal.


	2. The Things You Can't Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to light, conversations are had, and Corey is given the opportunity to accept a task-slash-final project that she can't (won't) refuse.
> 
> A poorly edited update, finally, with a whole lot of technical made-up mumbo-jumbo on theory and spell work I plucked out of nowhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go forth and read, my darlings.  
> Pick apart the poorly tossed together logic/theory.  
> (I promise it makes a little slight bit of sense).

Chapter Two~  
The majority of the first week is blessedly calm. Corey spends most of the time she isn't working on an assignment for a class- she knows she has at least one less free period on her schedule per day than the rest of her year to account for her heavier work load- seeing to her duties as Head Girl, conferring with the Head Boy about various scheduling conflicts and drawing up patrolling scripts for the Prefects. He's a Slytherin called Fergus, and Corey thinks very little of him- not because of his House's reputation, that would be silly, but because of his habit of shoving most of the more mentally trying work off onto her and skiving off nights he's listed for patrol duty (even though there's only been three listed for him so far, he's only made it to one).

By the time Friday rolls around, she is almost grateful. Most of the younger students are likely to calm down after their first weekend on school-grounds, and they'll be less prone to get lost on their way to a class after next week was half through (she'd had to practically hold Longbottom's hand to his classes for two days, something she was thoroughly not pleased about). The hardest part of the term was over and done with, leaving her ample time to focus on her studies and independent project.

With a tap of her wand she tidies her mess from breakfast- crumbs from toast and scraps of a shredded paper napkin, the victim of her nervous twitching- into a single pile on her plate, clutching one of her course books as she stands, preparing to leave the Hall in search of Professor Snape. She'd like to pick his brain for some information on an obscure branch of rare potion transfiguration before classes start, and as he hadn't put in a show at the Hall for breakfast she's assumed he'd taken the meal in either his private quarters or office. Of course, she is waylaid by the Transfigurations Mistress before she can even get beyond the end of the table, a slip of parchment handed delicately to her with a stern look.

"Miss Thomas. I've had words with the Headmaster about the course load you've taken on this year; I don't think it wise for a Head student studying for her NEWTs to have such a full schedule." Corey glances down at the slip of parchment in her hands without really seeing any of the words enscribed upon it, quirking an eyebrow as she looks back to the Gryffindor Head of House.

"He disagrees with you?"

McGonagall makes a face at Corey's question, as if she's just bitten into a particularly sour Every Flavor Bean, which tells her the answer to her question, but McGonagall composes herself just as quickly with a shake of her head.

"Professor Dumbledore thinks it is a large workload, yes, but he also does not think you cannot handle it. He seems to be under the impression that you can not only end the year with top marks, but accomplish whatever goal it is you've set yourself for your independent study as well."

From the slightly subdued note in Professor McGonagall's tone, Corey thinks that there's more to it than that. If her Father is to be believed- most of the time he isn't- there's always going to be more to it, where Albus Dumbledore is concerned.

"You think I can't?" Though it was not explicitly stated, she feels the implication like a solid blow. McGonagall merely tilts her head in a slight nod, confirming Corey's suspicions.

"The Headmaster would not let me lighten your workload, nor would he let me deny you the pleasure of an independent study, but he did grant me the liberty of removing you from any classes which you do not require to take your exams if the stress looks as if it is becoming too much. You are a bright girl, Miss Thomas, and I'd hate to see you burn out too quickly from overtaxing yourself."

Corey feels her expression go from fixed and polite to closed the second McGonagall expresses her concern. She's inexplicably angry with the woman; her lack of faith makes Corey doubt herself, and she hates feeling unsure of anything, least of all her own projects. In all the years she's been a student, McGonagall has never said such a thing to her- so to do so now, in her final year, is like a slap in the face- even more so because McGonagall sounds as if there's something she's holding herself back from saying. With a cordial nod in acknowledgement of the Professor's worries, Corey straightens her shoulders, drawing herself up to her full height.

"Thank you, Professor, for letting me know. If you'll excuse me."

:::::

Corey is already halfway to the Dungeons by the time she remembers that when McGonagall had stopped her with the short list of concerns she'd also handed her a note, and so she takes a moment to dig out the folded slip of parchment from between two of her books- Advanced Potions Transfiguration and Practical Charming for the Modern Age- before bothering to proceed any further.

Miss Thomas,

There is a matter of rather great importance I wish to discuss with you. Please join me in my office before your first class (the password is 'fizzing whizbees').

The note, though unsigned, can only be from one person in the school (whose identity would've been given away by the looping, elongated scrawl taking up a third of the page if not by the way the sender included a password to his office).

"At least he's not being cryptic this time." Corey grumbles to herself as she tucks the note away into one of the pockets lining the inside of her robe, hefting her bag back onto her shoulder as she turns and heads up the staircase on her left. It just figures that she'd end up spending her morning in with the Headmaster, when she could- and would rather- be spending it studying instead.

:::::

In the last six years of schooling-slash-residency at Hogwarts, Corey has only been to Dumbledore's office a scant handful of times. Once, before the start of her first year, with her Aunt and Uncle; at the time she'd thought it was simply something Professor Dumbledore did with all of the new students, a simple afternoon tea to help them ease in to a comfortable quasi-relationship with one or two of the professors. In her third year she found out from the Weasley twins that it was because several of the teachers had been wary of allowing her to attend, given her parentage and family history (Charlie had promptly walloped them each over the head, which had been the start of a long and beautiful friendship). The second time had been when Charlie fell off his broom from fifty feet in the air during a pick-up Quidditch game with Tonks, and she'd had to Floo to the Burrow (why the Weasleys willingly called their home such a ridiculous thing she still was not quite sure) in secret, as her family would most likely hurry on with disowning her if they knew. The third, and final, time had been just last year, when Filch caught them sneaking back into the castle covered in mud and scratches, received during a hasty exit from the Forest when a pod of Acromantula hadn't believed they were 'friends of Hagrid's, just in to check up on a nest of somethings a ways of the trail for him'.

This time feels different. She's not in trouble, for one, and there haven't been any frantic house elves tugging at the end of her robes with teary eyes lately. She's also never gotten summoned by note via Professor McGonagall- one of the Ravenclaws in her year has, though, and says it usually isn't anything life-altering. Usually.

"Fizzing Whizbees," The massive stone gargoyle in front of her- an eagle, wings spread to guard the staircase behind it that leads to the Headmaster's office- immediately shifts, drawing one wing back and up slightly higher to allow Corey access to the now rotating set of steps beyond. She steps forward, content to let the structure carry her to the peak rather than exert more energy than is necessary climbing the historical monstrosity.

Alighting from the staircase, Corey takes only a moment to glance around at the atrium-like room before stepping up to the door leading to the Headmaster's Office. The walls are painted tastefully in silvers and violets- leading her to believe in the castle tuning in to a personal preference on behalf of the current Head, rather than acquiescing to a vote based off of the Board's taste- with banners boasting the House crest of Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and Gryffindor, respectively with their colors. A fifth banner proudly displays the school seal. There are portraits of the Founders, one hanging on each wall, and all of them currently empty except for one (the Lady Rowena has a rather pronounced talent for detailed embroidery). Most of the smaller paintings interspersed throughout the rest of the free wall space have sleeping occupants- the Lady Marietta, Corey notes with no small amount of victorious glee and a distinct lack of surprise, has fallen asleep in Master Hummingdove's frame with her dress slightly off-kilter- and therefore allows for a peaceful hush to have fallen.

"Miss Thomas," A quiet, gruff voice startles Corey out of her thoughts on inter-portrait relationships. She turns slightly, schooling her features into something resembling that of the Respectful Debutante (read as polite, wife-material witch) her Aunt had tried to teach her to be, wondering who the man with the funny eye is.

"Yes, sir." She nods politely, gliding past him into the Head's office when he steps aside the allow her.

In the room, she finds Dumbledore seated calmly behind his desk, hands steepled beneath his chin in a contemplative pose, and a rather harried looking Professor McGonagall. When he spots her, Dumbledore's eyes flash with something Corey would liken to mischief- but Headmasters don't get into mischief, do they?- before settling into their familiar twinkling pattern, and he gestures at the empty chair before his desk.

"Miss Thomas, how kind. Would you like a lemon drop?"

"Albus," Though Corey is surprised to hear McGonagall use the same tone on Dumbledore that she usually reserves for overly defiant first years and the Weasley Twins, she doesn't even blink. The woman's been teaching here since Dippet was Headmaster, and probably has a relationship with the man akin to what Corey holds with Draco and Charlie.

Primly, she takes a seat in the empty chair, dipping into the bowl on the desk for two of the little yellow candies. They're Muggle, something she only ever gets when Dumbledore happens to offer them to her (which he does quite often, as he knows how fond she is of them). The sharp tang of artificial flavoring sits heavily on her tongue, and she allows herself to relax enough to sit back into the chair.

"Miss Thomas, before explaining why I've called you away from you studying you must swear a solemn oath not to repeat a word of what is said in this room." All the twinkle has gone from the Headmaster's sharp gaze, leaving only sternness in its wake. Corey has never seen this expression on Dumbledore's face before, and feels a growing curiosity swelling in her chest.

"I will not repeat the matters of this meeting to anyone outside of this room, sir," A shivering tingle spreads out from Corey's lower back; her magic sealing the oath. A large amount of tension seems to evaporate from the room with the tingling of her magic, and from the corner of her eye she can see Professor McGonagall's shoulders become ever so slightly less rigid. The scarred man remains impassive.

"Good. Professor McGonagall tells me that you've top marks in Transfiguration."

Corey did not know that, but the little fact buoys her confidence enough that she doesn't let it known.

"Yes, sir. It's one of my favorite classes, really, and it's quite simple if you know what you're doing and have the proper control over your magic." a sudden thought comes over her, then, and she glances to the man in the corner of the room.

"Professors, I'm not quite sure what my grades have to do with this meeting. Or-" She chances a surreptitious glance at the man, taking care to absorb his physical appearance as best she can, "Or with Aurors."

"What do you know about Aurors?"

The scarred man speaks without stepping forth, his voice soft but still managing to hold the promise of evisceration. Corey glances at Dumbledore, sees the familiar twinkle in his eye, and decides the man is an Auror. She raises her chin a fraction of an inch, setting her jaw in a hard line as she stares directly into the funny, twisting eyeball.

"I know they took my parents to Azkaban, sir, and I know that the younger ones would rather shoot off a shoddy Memory-Refining Charm than call in the Obliviators to take care of a seven-year-old."

A moment of silence follows Corey's confession, tense and thick with unspoken challenges. Neither Dumbledore or McGonagall speak, though Corey thinks it is rather because Dumbledore is waiting to see the other man's reaction than unwillingness, and McGonagall mightn't have been a bit thrown off at finding out the permanent residence of Corey's biological parents. The terse silence is broken when the man- the Auror- nods once, sharply, speaking to the Professors over the girl's head.

"Sharp, this one. I'll have to look in to that incident, see what I can't do about it."

That shocks her a bit. Dumbledore's slight clapping distracts her enough, though, that she doesn't ask after it.

"Excellent! Now, Miss Thomas: Transfiguration. Tell me, what is the most advanced branch of Practical Transfiguration a witch or wizard can take to study?"

"Animagus Theory and Transformation, sir." The answer leaps from the tip of her tongue with no hesitation, the question that's prompted it piquing her interest. The third years run a section on Animagi, or course, covering the basic differences between a person who undergoes the transformation and one who is Transfigured into a particular animal, but further than scratching the surface there is almost nothing until the seventh year NEWT level classes. Corey herself has recently devoured every book the Restricted Section holds on the Animagus Transformation, and has been considering sending for the proper forms from the Ministry to take up further study on the subject.

"Have you any thoughts or opinions on the Theory or Transformation? Speak freely, dear; your thoughts on this matter are quite important to the situation at hand."

Corey feels a rush of pure, unadulterated glee shoot through her veins like a drug as Dumbledore smiles at her, and has to take a moment to breathe deeply through her nose in an effort to calm herself. She spends the minute gathering her many and scattered thoughts- they span far and wide through her mind, in a tangled tapestry of images and thoughts.

"Personally, sir, if I were to form an opinion simply on what I've read in books and journals I'd think anyone who underwent the transformation is a complete and utter fool. In every book it's mentioned in it's said that if a Witch or Wizard is dedicated enough to their study in the field, and they've strong enough grip on their magic to hold it in reserve for when it's needed, they should be able to make the change at any given time with relative ease. Experts in the field- that is, those who have studied the Transformation but have not attempted it- suggest that it is as simple as thinking about what it might be like to be something other than Human.

"From what I understand of those who've attempted it, though, that's entirely untrue; you need an extraordinary level of discipline to hold that much of your magic in check, and there's dozens of initial charms you need to cast before that first change can be made. There's Occlumency to take into account as well; if a man or a woman doesn't have a strong enough grip on their own mind and lacks the ability to shield it at the time of transforming then the shift can go completely wonky, and they can end up half-way between their Animagus form and their human form, with the mind of an animal, or stuck as their opposite for the rest of their lives."

Corey pauses for breath, chancing a peek at her professor in the lapse. The older witch has a look of fierce pride on her face, mingling with a smug expression directed at the Headmaster that seems to say I told you so. The recipient of the look barely notices, enraptured as he's become with Corey's rather bookish spouting of facts and terms. He smiles at her, his fingers steepling just under his chin.

"You have certainly done your research. Have you ever considered becoming an Animagus, Miss Thomas?"

"I'm- what? Sir?"

"Perfecting the study, girl," The sound of the Auror's gruff voice startles Corey into jumping. She tilts her head in question, furrowing her brow at the man.

"I'm... not sure what you mean, sir. The branch of Transfiguration that deals with Animagi was established millenia ago and honed down to a near exact magic; the only ways it could be perfected is if one were to invent a potion or spell capable of revealing the wizard's form before hand, which would greatly eliminate the potential for disaster; or if one were able to choose their initial form- or even multiple forms."

The Auror watches Corey as she explains the history- the history that's been recorded, at least- of the Transformation, his Charmed eye swiveling over and around her person as if to appraise her. He nods his head once, with a sense of finality, before speaking.

"I'm sure that'll be no trouble for you, though. Professor Flitwick tells me you've already invented a Warding Charm strong enough to knock a man unconscious." Heat rises to her face as the man mentions it; she'd been working to create a line of protection and appearance-altering spells that one could use in a pinch, and had gone to the tiny Charms professor for assitance with the Ward.

"Yes, sir. I don't see what that has to do with Transfiguration, though; registration papers at the Ministry to study the transformation process aren't allowed to anyone under seventeen, and papers to actually attempt it aren't permitted until the witch or wizard is twenty-one. Unless you're going to break the law and allow me to study, perfect, and attempt it-"

"That's exactly what we're doing, Miss Thomas."

:::::

The meeting doesn't last much longer after that. Corey calls a halt to the general proceedings by hopping to her feet, demanding they explain themselves. Better than they have, in more depth at the bits on what her Transfiguration grade has to do with anything, and what a shifty looking man from the DMLE is doing in the corner. She finds out that the Auror is called Alastor- Mad-Eye Moody, the one who stunned her mother long enough to Transfigure and cage her for transport. He'd had both eyes and far less scars last she'd seen. They've told her the truth, they mean for her to perfect the Animagus Transformation until a person can shift into multiple forms of their own choosing, but they have an agenda.

"Tell me," Corey ceases her pacing, turning a curious, shielded look on Professor Dumbledore. "Why have you come to me with this project, sir? Surely there are more qualified Transfigurationists outside of Hogwarts than in."

Dumbledore sighs as if her question is silly, like she's a child that's taken to asking 'why?' at every available opportunity. Corey wonders how any of the staff puts up with him.

"Miss Thomas, the information that is about to be disclosed is of highly sensitive nature. You must share it with no one, and must let on to nobody but myself, Alastor, Madame Pomfrey, and the respective Heads of House mentioned here-on that you are aware."

Dumbledore glances and nods slightly at McGonagall, who steps forward slightly to stand in front of the desk. Her face is very stern, as if Corey's come to Dumbledore's office for a dsciplinary hearing rather than... whatever this is.

"Miss Thomas, I know that as Head girl your relationship with Neville Longbottom is closer than it would be if you'd been only a Prefect. More than cordial by force of position and nature of self, but less than what you hold with any of the other young students," Corey feels a slight pang at McGonagall's observation, but doesn't deny it. She is right, after all; she helps all of the first years as best as she can with whatever she can- homework, getting to classes, finding lost quills or pets- and generally does the same for the second and third year students as well. She makes it a habit to learn their houses and years, if not their names, and most of them hold a great deal of respect and affection for her. Longbottom, though, she can't help but want to distance herself from. Any time the boy has actively sought out the Head Girl for help, she's practically shoved him into the nearest Prefect or teacher- she's managed to anger a boy named Dorian, one of the Fifth Year Prefects from her House, by doing just that. Immediately after leaving the boy's presence, she feels absolutely terrible for how she's treated him, and usually ends up over-compensating for her behavior by offering homework help to anyone who needs it. She doesn't have enough time to help firsties with their Potions essays; she barely has time for her own Potions essays!

"While I do not think your behavior is entirely acceptable or... becoming, I do understand where you're coming from. Your parents are responsible for his lack of, and you feel," Corey shifts her gaze to the floor, tracing patterns in the wood grain. "You feel strongly."

"What does," Her voice cracks, breaking into a higher octave as it betrays her nerves. Corey doesn't look up from the floor. "What do they have to do with me? I was Obliviated, for all intents and purposes, Professor."

And she was. She'd seen it all- her parents and Uncle and God-father laughing and happy about something she didn't quite understand.

"Mama- what are we doing, Mama? Are we going to see Grandfather Cygnus?"

Mama is smiling, which she almost never does anymore. She turns that slightly too-upbeat grin on Corey, tweaking a stray curl.

"No, Duckling, something better. Watch and see,"

"Neville Longbottom was bitten by a Werewolf and infected with the Lycanthropy virus just before his parents were attacked." Moody's statement is abrupt and startling; she'd nearly forgotten he was here, listening to all of that. It has the dual effect of making her heart ache. She'd been there, actually held the snoozing toddler in a weak attempt to protect him while she watched his parents-

But his life had come to an end long before, hadn't it? He'd have to register with the Ministry or Senate of any country he wished to live in other than Britain, he'd face lower pay at jobs that didn't even pay well enough to live off, there would be looks and whispers on the street, shop owners might not do business with him. Because of her.

"Miss Thomas, have some chocolate." Dumbledore's voice sounds vaguely whimsical with the suggestion, but when she glances up Corey sees the utter seriousness of his offer. She takes a chip from the pile in the bowl- produced by Dumbledore from Merlin knows where- and pops in in her mouth whole, relishing in the warm tendrils she feels rushing through her system.

"I- that's why you want me to complete the Transformation, isn't it, sir," Not a question. Corey plows on without waiting for an answer she might not want. "A Werewolf's bite is harmless- relatively speaking- to an Animagus, and if I were to undergo the change I could-" She stops.

Breathes.

"Sir," She stands again, abruptly, and shoulders her bag. She nods at her Professor and the Auror in turn, her attention focusing once more on the Headmaster.

"I'll speak with Professor Snape about different potions that may have the ability to replicate a meditative effect while still managing to be non-narcotic and non-addictive. They should prove a viable line of research." She nods once more, with a sense of finality, as she turns to leave.

"Oh! Miss Thomas?" She turns to face Dumbledore with one hand on the heavy wooden door, her face studiously blank. The twinkle is back in his eye, and all the warmth she'd gained from eating that chocolate has gone.

"Yes, sir?"

"Perhaps it would be beneficial for you to brush up on your Charms work,"

She has nothing more to say, and only vaguely feels the rush of irritation tickling red-hot at the back of her tongue at the insinuation, so she nods. It's not worth pursuing at the moment, not if she wishes to get a word in with the Potions Master before classes start.

"Yes, sir."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied about it making sense.  
> The next chapter is in the works(??)  
> Comment with a review (please?)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I even know what I'm doing with this? No.  
> Someday soon I'm doing a complete overhaul and edit this monster, because there are so many inconsistencies it makes me want to cry.

Chapter Three: Such An Easy Game To Play (Such An Easy Thing to Say)~:

The door to Professor Snape's office is closed against the damp chill of the dungeon air when Corey arrives. She sees several first years giving her curious, side-long glances as they shuffle into the classroom, most likely wondering what the Head Girl is doing calling on a professor minutes before a class is to commence, but ignores them in favor of more interesting thoughts (such as the fact that her Charms work is absolutely extraordinary, and Dumbledore obviously needs a quick review of the grade rosters if he thinks otherwise). They're not going to be her problem for at least two hours- Gryffindor and Slytherin First Years have their first Potions lesson (with each other) today, which means less time holding hands for Corey.

"Enter!" The harsh tone of the Potion Master's voice can be heard almost immediately after Corey raps on the door, impatient and scathing even before his first class of the day. She wonders idly what's gotten his boxers in a bunch as she opens the door, hovering just inside the doorway rather than going further into the poorly lit room. She hates Professor Snape's office; not for the lack of lighting or the universal basement-like chill that seeps in and makes her teeth chatter, but because of the latent tendrils of Dark Magic she can feel swirling around, mingling with the second-hand fear left over from whatever unwitting student was last there for a reprimand. It makes her entire mouth flood with a warm, metallic slickness; like blood, but more potent in all the aspects that are of import.

"Miss Thomas. Albus Flooed ahead; he says you've an Independent Project that you may require my... expertise on." The man makes a face as if he's smelt something sour, and Corey wishes she could sink through the floor. Dumbledore could've simply told Snape the truth- but of course he wouldn't; meddling old fool he is, he's got to make everything more difficult than it has to be.

"Yes, sir. I've been made aware of certain aspects of another student's personal... situation, and I've been given permission to study, attempt, and if possible better the Animagus Transformation and Practice. I was hoping that you might help me with it a bit; I'm dismal at Potions and wouldn't even know where to begin." Her voice is even, kept blank enough to be considered monotone only from spending her formative years living with a madwoman, and betrays nothing of her utter curiosity at the situation she's found herself thrust into. Corey has known Severus Snape since she was old enough to toddle- one of the first names she'd learnt to call out when she'd wanted something done was, in fact, his own- so she doesn't feel all that much trepidation at having to call upon him for help, which doesn't happen all that often, anyways. Even now, when she should be near pissing herself with embarrassment and shame like any other student would, she's more interested in the jar of crushed bicorn horn resting on the shelf next to her (it refracts the dim lighting differently every time she sees it), and the mere idea of being more interested in a sparkling powder than in the possible discovery of a lifetime makes her want to giggle.

"Oh? How on Earth would you- no, don't answer that. I haven't the time to get into a discussion on such ridiculous endeavors with you again." Snape stands, moving away from his desk and towards a door on the far side of the room, though he stops just before opening it. "Since you seem to have such a poor opinion of your brewing skills, and therefore must be in need of practice, I'm willing to offer you a position as my assistant."

"What? Assistant?" Corey used to assist him in his brewing when she was small and he was just leaving Hogwarts. She mostly handed him minced spleen of whatever and tidied up the least volatile of the substances, but he would praise her for her work and call her 'Little Potions Mistress' when her parents were absent.

Silly.

"Yes. I've a double class of first years every Friday, as you no doubt know, and I find myself in need of a teaching aide. Nothing too strenuous- simply retrieving vials of potions or correcting form; even you could handle it," Git. "You would, of course, receive credit for your time, an honest pay, and should you see the position out to the end of the year, a letter of recommendation towards any Apprenticeship post you should like." Snape fiddles with the corner on a bit of scroll in his hand- potentially the roster- as he makes his offer, pointedly refusing to make eye contact with Corey as he speaks. He makes it sound as if she had approached Dumbledore about sitting in on the class, which settles a firm stone of something warm and heavy low in her gut as her tongue tingles with the salty sweetness of caramel smugness, this emotion all her own. Severus Snape wants her- a student, a Hufflepuff- to help him teach impressionable young witches and wizards one of the finer arts of Magic, and had even gone so far as to seek her out to ask her to take the position. Or, he would have, had she not come to him first.

"Only the one class?" She attempts to sound nonchalant, which works rather well considering the happy somersaults her stomach's started turning. Her face remains impassive, and though he answers immediately Professor Snape doesn't look up from his curled parchment corner.

"To start." A short pause.

"Which Houses?" The corner of Snape's mouth tugs upwards slightly, as if held with invisible string, but falls back into its stern line just as quickly. He knows she's playing for time she doesn't need, but he doesn't call her on it.

"Slytherin and Gryffindor."

A bell chimes somewhere overhead, indicating the start of the first class of the day, and the professor stands. "I don't require an answer presently, but if you're planning to reject my offer I expect notice before this time next week."

He strides out of the room without another word, his ridiculous robes billowing out behind him. Corey waits a moment, gnawing at her lower lip as she debates her choices- leave and pore over ancient, dusty books in the library that don't have the answers she needs or stay and maybe have some fun finding a solution to her Charming dilemma- before placing her book bag gently on the floor in the corner and following quietly.

:::::

The classroom, when she enters, is almost totally silent save the low, harsh tone Snape is using, the one that he uses on each class of first years to strike fear into their very souls, and the scratching of a single quill on a bit of parchment. Corey winces internally; it's probably some Muggle-born, or perhaps a Muggle-raised half-blood taking notes down, like he or she's been taught to do automatically for the last however many years, completely oblivious to the fact that their Potions instructor has a strict policy on note taking in his class- copy down what's written on the board, only when told to. Thankfully Snape ignores the sound, if he even notices it at all, choosing instead to head off on a long, essentially pointless tangent- his well practiced Usual- about bottling and brewing and stoppering all sorts of things that are nigh on impossible to bottle, brew, or stopper (which Corey knows, because she's seen it tried).

A brief silence follows the spiel, during which Corey notices little Hermione Granger practically falling out of her seat in her anticipation to learn. She snickers into the back of her hand when half of the room jumps, startled, as Snape singles out one of the students by name.

"Potter!" A small boy- small even by the standards of an average Firstie, and so skinny, wouldn't Mrs. Weasley just have a cow- with taped-together glasses and big green eyes flinches at the shout, sending a singularly disgusting wave of slick, cold, oily fear coasting along the back and sides of Corey's tongue. "If I were to mix powdered root of asphodel with an infusion of wormwood, what would be the resulting solution?"

The boy blinks worriedly and turns to glance at a red-haired boy next to him- another Weasley, one she peripherally remembers from a holiday spent at Charlie's- as a warm flow of confusion rushes over Corey's tongue. It tastes of mangoes and chocolate, separately and together.

"I don't know, sir." Snape's lips twist into what might be the cruel facade of a smile, and Corey frowns. She doesn't know where the Potter boy comes from, but it's obviously not from a home that encourages the use of Magic- possibly he's come from a Muggle home, and didn't even know he was a wizard at all until he received his letter. Severus as a professor would have been told of the Boy's status, and is being purposefully harsh, ignoring Granger's hand in his attempt to humiliate the Boy Who Lived.

"So it appears fame is not everything," Why would he, Corey thinks, when that draught is a Level Six Advanced Potion? "Once more- where would you look if I were to ask you to seek out a bezoar?" Her own class hadn't covered bezoars until after Christmas of her first year, and if the Boy had come from a Muggle home, as she suspects, he wouldn't even know of the most basic Pain-Relief Potions, let alone a poison cure-all. On the opposite side of the room, Draco and a pair of thick-necked fools are shaking with silent laughter.

"What about the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

None, comes unwittingly to the forefront of her mind, with a steadily growing frown to match on her face. The professor is being plain unfair. Wolfsbane isn't taught until students reach their Fourth Year, when they spend ages researching theory and ingredients and boring stuff about Moon Lily ash that no one can ever remember. Students don't even brew it until their Seventh- and only under strict supervision from Professor Snape.

The room is quiet. Granger is standing, practically dancing in place as she stretches her hand higher towards the ceiling- Corey wouldn't be surprised if she's read and memorized all her course books cover to cover already- and still the Potions Master ignores her attempts.

"Professor," Corey's voice startles the professor out of the impromptu stand-off he's fallen into with Harry Potter, and he stands up straighter to glare at her from between the twin curtains of his dark hair. The flinches from the Gryffindor side of the room are in perfect tandem with the Slytherins' blink of confusion.

"Miss Thomas. I trust you have a decent excuse for interrupting my lesson?"

"I do, sir. You called me here to assist you; I'm not doing much assisting just standing back here."

It seems to her, in that moment, that everyone's simply ceased to breathe. She can feel a multitude of eyes on her still form, blinking in muddled confusion as the First Years attempt to work out just who she is- only two or three out of the whole twenty-one know for certain- and what she's doing standing in the back of the room, stepping right on Snape's metaphorical toes in the middle of one of his infamous verbal lashings. She ignores the tingly feeling she gets at the nape of her neck, holding the eye contact she's established with her professor.

With a scowl around the room that makes the students cringe again, Professor Snape breaks the visual connection he's held with Corey, turning to flick his wand at the blackboard. A set of instructions appears in peaked, twisting scrawl- Corey wonders if Flitwick would be willing to teach her the Charm for that, so she'd not have to spend three hours copying down notes for Transfiguring Potions from books she can't check out of the library by hand- almost instantly, and Snape grinds out:

"Follow the instructions on the board to the letter. Do not blow your cauldrons up; turn to Miss Thomas for assistance only if you have to. Miss Thomas, please see to the cauldrons at your back if you've nothing pressing to see to."

:::::

Over the course of the following twenty-seven and a half minutes, Corey mentally runs through every foul word she can think of- Muggle and otherwise- and somehow manages to apply it to Snape and her situation. The task she's been assigned, cauldron scrubbing, is woefully unpleasant. The water has long since run cold, and since Snape's forbidden her from using her wand she can't even cast a simple heating charm over the ancient fixtures to keep the water flowing over her hands from chilling her down to her bones. Her fingers are numb and look to be tipped with vaguely flesh-colored prunes.

When she reaches the end of the list, she pairs words off in twos and threes and starts again.

Worse than filthy cauldrons, numb fingers, the rush of emotional tingling just at the nape of her neck, is the way Snape is managing any and all reason to boast about how the students from his house are so far superior to those in Gryffindor. Pansy Parkinson's potion is better than Ron Weasley's- Corey'd been right, he is Charlie's brother, the youngest- because of texture or viscosity or something. Vincent Crabbe, one of Draco's new 'friends', has a potion of higher standard than that of Hermione Granger because of how long he's left it on the heat before adding his slugs in (though Corey highly doubts such a thing is even possible, considering the conversation she'd overheard at the Feast just a few days ago). The only constant in Snape's abusive, never-ending, multifaceted tirade is that everyone, apparently, has a better potion than Neville Longbottom. Especially Corey's cousin, who can't even handle making his own tea without burning the water, but can apparently produce a hideously perfect Boil Begone on his first legitimate attempt.

"- of course, if anyone at all has actually taken the time to read the course material it is Mister Malfoy; the color of the boiled slugs here is the exact shade of-"

 

"Arcomai," Corey whispers the Charm- a simple protection against overall harm that she scribbled out one day in her Defense textbook and has been meaning to test out- as a loud hiss fills the dungeon room. When she turns, and is subsequently assaulted by an acrid-smelling green smoke, she is only mildly surprised to see the students climbing onto chairs and desks to avoid the contents of Longbottom's cauldron. A thick, bluish sludge spreads over one of the desks and across the floor, melting shoes, leaving boils and red, weeping sores where it's touched Neville's skin.

"Idiot boy!" Professor Snape snarls and swoops down upon the epicenter of the mess, muttering a controlled vanishing charm over the spoiled potion as he shouts at the Gryffindor.

"I suppose you left the cauldron on the fire when you added the porcupine quills?"

The boy whimpers rather pitifully in response. Boils spring up like daisies in the snow across the bridge of his nose as the Professor sneers. Corey doesn't like the look on his face; she's seen him sneer and glare and mock just about everyone he's ever come in contact with, but this time he's truly hateful and it's as if he means it.

"Mister Finnigan, please escort Mister Longbottom to the Hospital Wing. Take care not to get any of that solution on your skin; Merlin knows what it could do. Miss Thomas, please instruct Mister Potter in how to correctly brew a potion, see if you can't prevent a second catastrophe."

Corey shoots a glare at the back of the Potion's Professor's head, knowing the Longbottom boy would never (even if he were able) gather up the courage to do so much as blink in response, as she skip-hops over and through the remaining mess to crouch by his side. If she mumbles a perfectly harmless Feather-Light charm under her breath to ease Finnigan's journey- dungeons to Hospital, lugging a classmate along at full weight is neither fun nor easy- that's nobody else's business.

"Potter," At Snape's address of the Boy, Corey glances up; her professor is looming- not standing, because simply standing would be far too mundane in the aftermath of such a failure- over the boy's cauldron. She sighs mentally, wondering just what the child could have done, so early in term and from having no prior contact with the man, to cause him such ire. "Did you think it would prove advantageous, not attempting to prevent a fellow classmate's mistake? That's a point you've lost, now."

Corey gathers the necessary supplies in silence, watching Potter seethe quietly from the corner of her eye when Weasley tops him from protesting.

:::::

"So," Corey's starter is awkward and falls lame. It's ridiculous. She knows how to talk to kids, knows how to hold their attention long enough to explain the basic necessitation of using the occasional counter-curse versus throwing up easy shield charms in a duel. Making polite conversation with Harry sodding Potter should be simple. Maybe it's the way his companion, the Weasley runt, is shooting uneasy glances it her from the corner of his eye every minute or so.

"You've gotten on his bad side already, hm?" It's only Friday, the sixth day of term, the fifth day of classes. She's not tried to keep tabs on how many firsties end up in Hospital (Longbottom's been four times, including today), or how many end up pissing off the notoriously tetchy Potions Master (a lot), but she does anyways. Potter, so far, has only managed one- landing himself at the top of the very long mental list of Disliked Firsties that Snape very probably keeps- but has done so spectacularly and with a flair that Corey applauds.

"Ngh," The boy's only response is a slight grunt and wince (when he catches a whiff of his potion), but Corey chooses to take it as an answer in the affirmative.

"There's no need to worry, then, about the rest of the year," Corey chatters inanely as she stirs her slugs once, to check the consistency. From Potter's other side, Weasley snorts in disbelief.

"No need to worry? You did just see that, right? He hates Harry- he took a point because Harry didn't know about bezoars."

In his anger, Ron stirs his potion half a rotation too far before adding the porcupine quills. It bubbles weakly before turning a hazy shade of yellow, but Corey decides it's not likely to cause them much damage if the cauldron goes the same way as Finnigan's did. Probably a mild blister or a first-degree burn at the worst.

"Oh, well, going by that logic Professor Snape hates me about twenty times more than either of you per class. The first month or so is always the worst, Weasley, but it gets better when you get into the swing of it."

Harry stares contemplatively into his cauldron for a moment, as if unsure whether or not to believe the Hufflepuff's words. The other boy splits a grimace between Corey and his sunshine-pale potion.

"Miss Thomas, that's ten points from Hufflepuff for an outstanding lack of respect shown to Professors during a lesson." Snape offers up the point deduction casually as he stalks past the bench where Corey's been stationed, hardly bothering to slow his stride.

"Of course, sir."

"Five more for your cheek."

"I expected nothing less, Professor."

When Snape continues on by without taking any more points, Corey has to stifle a grin at Weasley's dumbfounded expression in her borrowed potions text.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, or something. No feedback is making me a bit twitchy.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a review, but make sure I'll be able to walk away breathing after reading, okay? If I get enough positive feedback I'll maybe post more to it (ah, yes, the promise of more shit to whet your palates)  
> Okay.


End file.
